A Letter To Chester, My Economics Teacher

Dear Chester,

When I first met you last semester, I did not like you very much. In fact, I hated you. As if an 8 am class wasn't horrible enough, you waltz in Mondays and Thursdays with futile attempts to teach us Macroeconomics. I had to give it to you—you were probably the most boring person in the world. The only reason I sat down in front of you day in and day out is that I didn't want to fall asleep in your class. I might not like you then, but I felt compelled to respect you. And your goatee.

It's always you and your goatee. I wonder, how long does it take to fix it? I have never seen a hair out of place in that  tuff placed precariously on your chin. Your clothes have a habit of looking like they were freshly picked from the clothes line, but your goatee is excellently polished every single time. If you're reading this, you're probably feeling bad about the mean things I'm telling you now, but let me just say something nice: your goatee becomes you. It looks just like an extra body part.

As the months passed by, I realized that you aren't such a bad professor after all. Sure I cursed you and your goatee the whole two hours of the first exam, and I drew a caricature of you which I passed around and my friends laughed at, but you turned out to be cool. You're okay. You were cooler and okayer when you gave me a surprising 1.5. Did you know, yours was the only subject last semester which I actually worked for. By some extraordinary twist of fate, you found a way to make Macroeconomics interesting, relating it to issues average students care about.

Remember the time you walked out on the class last sem? You were asking us questions and everybody was still too bangag to answer, the day being a Monday and the time being 8 am. Your control broke and you sat down to give us a short talk, stood up to give us an assignment, then walked out. I felt bad, because I was this dumb person who always sat down in front of you, but didn't have the answers. Everyone felt bad at that time. University professors walking out of classes are just plain weird and depressing.

Last Thursday, you walked out on the class again. Same time, different day, different subject (Microeconomics). You asked if anybody read the assigned chapter and everybody said no. I was busy doodling. Before I knew it, you got a Nutrilicious, sat down to give us a short talk in a quiet, tear-choked voice: everyday I wake up to teach you economics, but you are not interested to learn. There were some stuff about Marx and Durkheim and that's the part where I lost you. But I got you, never fear. I couldn't look up because I might see your face and I was sure that the expression on it, from your voice, would make me feel very sad indeed.

This is all I got to say: this semester, yours is still the only subject I actually work for. This semester, yours are the only lectures I actually pay attention to, with notes to prove it. I'm sure I'm not the only one like this when it comes to your subject, because I overheard Pierre Joseph (you kow the band guy with the mustachio?) the other month telling Ariel James the same thing. We might not read your readings, but we do listen to you. You love your economics so much it has infected some of us. You succeeded in teaching us more than terms and graphs. I think, you made us understand. I notice that it's a hard thing to do nowadays.

So don't feel bad. We have learned from you, and we are interested in learning from you. You're just looking at the wrong way, Chester.

P.S.—I think that Chester is a funny name. Do you watch Spongebob Squarepants? There's an episode there somewhere which reveals Plankton's real name. It's Sheldon. Chester, Sheldon, same banana.